CHAPTER XX
A FINAL EXCITEMENT
At first Betty had not seen how she could possibly be spared from “business” on the most strenuous night in the Tally-ho’s history, with three class suppers being eaten at once in its precincts, a chef from Boston lording it over Bridget in the kitchen,—or trying to, and a little army of strange waitresses to be shown the way about. But 19— was firm; its president must and should sit through the whole supper on the right hand of Eleanor Watson, who was toast-mistress again this year; must present the mammoth ploshkin to T. Reed’s adorable young son, and the silver loving-cup to the real class-baby, the daughter of a certain Mary Jones, who had never in all her college course done anything less commonplace than her name. On the day after commencement she had married a Harding lawyer, and her living in town made the display of her very small baby possible.
“It’s not every first year reunion that has one right here on hand to be inspected,” declared Katherine Kittridge. “So here’s to Mary Jones, if she wasn’t a highly exciting member of our highly exciting class.”
So Betty finally yielded to 19—’s demands for her own and Emily’s release from duty, put the management of the suppers into Nora’s capable hands, and resolved to wear the rose-colored satin dress that she had bought in Paris and to forget for the one night that she was anything but a “lady of leisure” come to her class reunion, just like Bob and Babe and Roberta, without a care in the world or a thought beyond the joy of being “back” with 19—. And partly, no doubt, because the supper was so good and so well served, she succeeded. Eleanor was lovelier than ever, and her little speeches cleverer; Bob, on her other side, was jollier, Helen Adams more amusingly sedate, K. more delightfully absurd. The toasts were as “superfine” as all 19—’s stunts, the songs went with a fine dash, the ploshkins made a decided hit, and T. Reed’s little T.—it stood for Thomas instead of Theresa—was so dear and comical, trying to pull his big ploshkin off the table, and finally insisting on a chair for it between himself and “Mother T.,” as everybody called her now. Betty realized suddenly that she hadn’t had many “good times” this year, and that she had missed them. Then she forgot everything but the perfectly splendid time she was having right now, in the old care-free Betty Wales fashion. She counted the minutes jealously, and sighed all to herself when the last toast was over—K’s comical eulogy of “Our Working Women.”
But with the end of the supper the night’s fun was only well started. Up the stairs to the loft, bearing the ploshkins solemnly above their heads, climbed 19—, to sing to the little tenth year table; then out to the Peter Pan Annex to salute the fifteeners and pelt them with green carnations. The third year reunion was up in the gym; the seniors were in the Student’s Building. Off trailed 19—, to the tune of the ploshkin song, to return en masse the serenades that had enlivened its own supper. Up-stairs the tenth year people were not half-way through their toasts. Down-stairs Nora turned the lamps low, so that they would burn until 19— came back for its forgotten wraps and its last good-byes. It was a breathlessly hot night, so Nora left all the windows open, and she and Bridget, their duties ended, went home to well-earned rest.
It was long after midnight when 19—, having serenaded all the suppers, all their favorite faculty, all their “loved spots” on the campus, came back in scattered ranks and without music, for they had sung themselves hoarse, to the Tally-ho. The other classes had left, and the tea-shop was dusky and silent. Betty happened to be marching in the front rank with Babe and Roberta.
“I ought to have come back ahead and lighted up for you,” she said. “I thought Nora would stay until we got here, but it’s terribly late, and I suppose she got sleepy.”
“We can hurry ahead and do it now just as well,” declared Babe, and the three walked swiftly up the winding path and flung open the heavy door.
Though the lamps were turned low, they gave light enough to see by easily, and there, sitting at the desk, bending over the pigeonholes, was a tall woman wearing a dark dress and a dark, drooping hat, that, in her present attitude, completely hid her face. The three girls discovered the intruder at exactly the same minute.
“More Blunderbuss,” murmured Babe, remembering the mysterious robberies of senior year. “Do you know her, Betty?”